Vanilla Ice Cream
by Scarabsi
Summary: The damning line: "I entered the war and saved you, and it was never any other way. It couldn't have been, the condition you were in." And now America has to play Find the Mistake. He sucks at that game.


**Headnotes: **This was written for Fanime-Sensei's Hetalia Romance Story Writing Contest. The prompt for this month was USUK. . . At first I thought this would be easy, but as the month drew on it seemed to get more and more difficult! It didn't help that I was traveling a bunch this month, and I'm actually writing this from the other side of the planet from my hometown. I'm so lucky I don't get jet-lag.

I'm really happy that I'm here for round two, and as always good luck to everyone, and I hope you enjoy this!

* * *

**Vanilla Ice Cream**

_superheroes and fairy tales, and belief is only a type of determination_

* * *

_I was the hero._

America peered out from underneath his curled arms, flinching at the shrapnel and blinking away dust. He could feel a residual burn around his shoulders where they stuck out, but his legs and head were obscured in a cooler shadow.

He uncurled from his protective fetal position and fluttered his fingers over scratched, bleeding arms; grabbed at pieces of burnt olive uniform, felt hot tears tracking a white line in his dirt-smeared face. Before he knew it, his palms were pressed hard against cold, profusely bleeding cheeks.

_Shut up. Forget this memory! I was the hero! I was the savior._

He couldn't stand to look into clouded and sickly green eyes, so instead he stared at the trembling pink lips, which had split and bled down the grimy chin.

The lips trembled themselves into a smirk, revealing blood-smeared teeth. A tired voice rolled from it. "Amateur," it called America.

_I entered the war and saved you, and it was never any other way. It couldn't have been, the condition you were in._

"Some hero you turned out to be," the voice continued. Then the consequences of the explosion took their toll on the body and England's eyes rolled into his head. He collapsed into America's arms like a rag doll, weighing like his bones had hollowed out.

.

America often woke up singing Yankee Doodle.

When that happens, he usually cannot recall the dream he had that triggered it, and after one session of trying to remember the dreams which resulted in a minor panic attack, he learned to leave these dreams to be forgotten.

Part of him suspects that these dreams aren't so much inventions of his mind as they are a kind of memory. Some days, he can feel the shadows of his past chasing after him like a monster in the night. The monster frightens him so much, he finds it difficult to look back; so he doesn't. He looks straight ahead like a horse with blinders on, and why shouldn't he? The future is the hometown of progress, and after all, he is America – what is America if not an insatiable machine of innovation and development?

"'Stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni,'" he found himself mumbling. He cracked his eyes open with an annoyed groan and blinked away the direct beams of sunrise coming in from the window.

He has woken up singing Yankee Doodle more often recently. Each time, it is less effective. America shook his head, eyebrows furrowing. He'd been dreaming something about England, that's for certain; and not the good kind of dream either, or he'd be clearing his sheets instead of his song-worn throat.

"I wish I could go back to just wet dreams," he said to Tony, chuckling ironically to himself.

When Tony made no response, he craned his head, and it was then he remembered where he was: upside-down in a plush chair in his embassy in London, where he'd passed out after getting sloshed on age-legal British alcohol the night before. He'd been trying to forget about an unsatisfying meeting about. . . something political, that he'd apparently forgotten successfully.

Well, at least that explained the shooting pain in his neck.

With a great effort, America hefted his suddenly very heavy arm in front of his face and squinted at his watch in the morning light. Quarter to five. That's just _great_. Well, at this hour at least there weren't too many people coming in and seeing him like this.

When he finally managed to shift himself into the chair properly, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through the messages that had accumulated in the night. His ambassador had already called him nine times and sent dozens of irritated texts demanding to know his location. America heaved a great sigh and called him back.

"Where the hell were you all night?" the ambassador demanded in greeting.

"Wumbulagh." America coughed and then cleared his throat; his voice still came out a little huskier than he'd prefer. "We finished the talks yesterday afternoon."

"After which you were supposed to come with me to the pre-arranged dinner to wind down!" America pulled the phone a little further from his ear, wincing; it was nice to know this guy was worried, but the screeching frustration coming from the speaker was too loud for his hangover. "Thanks to your absence, I have a situation to deal with today!"

"England's pissed at me," America guessed.

"Okay, pal, maybe that doesn't seem like a big deal to you, but us mortals don't have centuries of experience dealing with an angry nation, so you should at least pretend to care."

America pinched the bridge of his nose and then rubbed the insides of his eyes. "What do I have to do?" he asked wearily, being as petulant as he could get away with.

"Get your ass back to the hotel," the ambassador growled, and hung up.

America let his phone slide out of his hand and drop to the floor. _"Urrrrgh,"_ he complained, and put his aching forehead into his palm.

.

He met England in the hotel lobby with four cups of black coffee in his hand. The quality was less than ideal for his tastes, but since he was apparently on bad terms with England at the moment he refrained from telling England this.

"Mornin'," he said to England as he sat down.

"Astute observation," England snapped. "How much of last night do you remember? I must know how much coffee to throw in your face."

America winced and put down the cups daintily on the coffee table in front of his chair. "Can I just say I'm sorry for whatever I did last night?"

England's scowl only worsened. "If you're so keen on alcohol consumption, go drink somewhere else. France would gladly sell you his."

"France?" America frowned. "Wow, was I really that bad last night?"

England put on his prim 'I'm-a-gentleman' face and coughed lightly. "France and I are friends now," he said in the perfectly-measured tone of someone who had practiced that line until it no longer sounded sarcastic. "I only mention him because he _loves_ being phoned in early hours of the morning with filthy suggestions."

There was a brief moment where America's subconscious automatically swept the last few minutes of conversation under the rug and chanted 'that didn't just happen.' Then he came to his senses and felt his stomach drop down to his feet. "I didn't," he moaned, staring desperately at England for reassurance he knew he wouldn't get.

Instead of replying, England glowered at him; that was answer enough.

America put his face in his hands and swore loudly into his palms. "I'm so, _so_ sorry about that," he said almost pleadingly. "I don't get drunk much. It won't happen again. I'm _so_ sorry."

If anything, this only appeared to worsen England's mood. "Shut _up_. The more you apologise, the less sincere you sound."

"I'm really _really_ sorry."

"In any case, I care less about your drunken antics than about your sober ones," England continued smoothly, threading his fingers together and crossing his legs in a symbol of business. "I don't suppose you recall the meeting we held, prior to your irresponsible alcoholism."

"Sorry," America said, and then corrected himself. "No, I don't really."

England tapped his index finger against his arm. "Does the phrase _I entered the war and saved you_ ring any bells?"

_I entered the war and saved you_

_saved you_

_and it was never any other way._

"Ah," America said, as though he had bought a pack of baseball cards and gotten ten copies of the same mediocre player. "So that really happened."

England reached over to the coffee table, grabbed one of America's cups, and took a sip from it before standing up. "Call me when you've realized what you've done, and then I'll consider accepting your apologies," he said, and exited the building.

.

"Ah. . . ah," said Japan, later that night when America had finished throwing things around his hotel room in humiliation and self-loathing and tried calling his best friend for advice.

"I'm just so confused," America continued, feeling increasingly discouraged by Japan's lack of a coherent response. Japan was usually so wise and eloquent. "I mean, I know I screwed things up badly, but why did he stress that sentence in particular? What was worse about that one line?"

"Ah," Japan said again, though this time America stopped talking and waited; he'd grown to understand the various meanings of Japan's 'ah's over the years. "And England-san definitely didn't mention anything else?"

America shook his head. Because Japan had grown to understand the various meanings of America's over-the-phone silences, he knew America's response.

"Perhaps you should consider how England-san would feel, being told something like that," Japan said cautiously.

America frowned. "I already thought about that, but I still don't get it. I mean, I did enter the war, and I did save him."

"Ah," Japan said again, and America waited impatiently for him to continue. "Are you certain there is not an objectionable angle to the wording of that statement that you may have missed?"

"Arrgh, I don't know, I'm not good at this kind of thing," America complained. "Can't you just tell me? I mean, you can't say I'm wrong."

". . . Perhaps from a certain point of view, I might refrain from saying that you are incorrect. Yes."

"Japan, come on," America whined.

Japan sighed. "Such a statement may come across as the slightest bit boastful against England-san's favour, for a start."

"How is saying 'I entered the war and saved you' boastful?" America asked. He was getting tired of talking in circles. "He was being creamed at the time! If it weren't for me, the Axis Powers might have won that war!"

There was another moment of silence, though it was much colder this time than the last. "It has become apparent at this venture that his honourable sir would better benefit without the unqualified opinions of this humble one," said Japan. The line went dead before America realized his mistake.

"No, no, I didn't mean it that way, I'm sorry!" America said desperately into his phone. Not that it would do him any good now, but he had to try. He called Japan's number again, but Japan didn't answer, so he sent a text message instead.

_Really sorry wasn't using brain you know I regret my actions and your my favorite_

He felt bad about twisting the truth; technically England was his favorite, but Japan came at a close second and he wanted to be as ingratiating as possible.

Why couldn't his problems with England be so obvious? He had figured out his problem with Japan right away. _A bit boastful against England-san's favour,_ Japan had said. What did he mean by that?

_I entered the war and saved you._

He turned the phrase over, trying to drain different meaning out of it. _I entered the war_ well, he had entered the war, was he supposed to pretend he had done nothing? _And saved you_ well he had, hadn't he, was heroism a crime now? How was that _boastful against England's favor_. . .

Against England's favor. . . _and saved you_. . .

. . . Huh.

Just then, he received a text response from Japan.

_OK__、許す。_

America didn't know what that meant, but the fact Japan was sending text messages to him again must be a good sign, so he smiled.

.

England slammed the door in America's face, but America wasn't discouraged by this and rang the doorbell again.

Thankfully, England opened the door again after only four more rings, and didn't even chain the door up. "Well?" he asked impatiently.

"Don't slam the door again please," America said quickly.

England rolled his eyes but reluctantly invited America into the hall before he shut the door again. "So what have you got?" he asked while dusting his hands and then crossing his arms; closed off, almost like usual, but worse than normal.

America nodded. "I'm sorry that I offended your masculine pride," he said confidently.

England's brows furrowed, and then he tilted his head back and stared at America as though he were an alien creature. "Now that I never expected," he said, incredulous.

"Wasn't that the problem? I pointed out that you needed to be saved by me, and you didn't like being called a damsel in distress," America explained. "I promise I didn't mean it that way," he added.

"You're unbelievable," England sneered. He threw the door open and pointed out of it. "Get out of my house."

Instinctively, America backpedaled away from the door. "Look, England, it's really okay either way, there's really nothing wrong with femininity. I know you like your lace and your embroidery, and I accept that about you! There's no need to be so self-conscious about your gender identity!"

"This is _not_ about gender identity," England stated, so fiercely and unironically that America had to stop talking. "You've completely failed to understand the situation, though that comes as absolutely no surprise, and I'd like to ask you to leave on the first flight tomorrow if you'll be so kind."

"England, no," America said. He noted with some concern that he was sounding increasingly whiny and pleading and swallowed. "I tried my best, I thought all night about it. You know I'm not good at this stuff. Just explain it to me," he reached for England's hand before he could stop himself, "please."

England wrenched his arm away. "You thought all night and the best you could think of was 'damsel-in-distress'?"

"What's wrong with that?" America crossed his arms too, trying not to feel horrendously rejected. "I like being a knight in shining armor."

Then, finally, England was looking at him; it was a quick darting movement, a brief flash of green, and America only caught it because he was pathetic. England's arms loosened slightly from their tight knot and his brow smoothed until there was no more anger or resentment there, only surprise and disbelief.

"You. . . mean in a _romantic_ sense?" England asked, eyebrow raised, staring transfixed at America's shoes.

America backtracked through their conversation and felt his face heat up red. "Wha- No, I- Where- I didn't say that!"

England looked up at America's face again, and this time he stayed there; America lost himself for a moment before he forced himself to focus, and looked at England's nose instead. "That's what you mean, though," England continued slowly, piecing together a strange puzzle and unwilling to get it wrong. "When you talk about knights in shining armor and damsels in distress, that's what you mean. That's a romantic template for you."

"Who told you that? No it's not!" America said. "Those are fairy-tale things. That's _your_ forte." With a stroke of inspiration, he pointed accusingly at England and said "_You're_ the one interpreting it romantically, Mr. Unicorns-Exists!"

As expected, this halted England's teasing in its tracks. To America's dismay, England went in an entirely different direction than he anticipated. "How _dare_ you put my myths on the same level as your fairy-tale misinterpretations! _Some of us_ understand the actual meaning and context behind olden stories!"

With nowhere else to go emotionally, America followed England's lead and got angry. "Oh, is that what you call it when you're obsessed with a stupid make-believe magic-farting horse?"

England's face was twisting up like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Only the most uneducated kind of caveman would ever use adjectives of such ignorance!"

"We've all seen the Disney movies! You're just being all high and mighty again, you British snob!" America yelled.

"Disney?" England yelled back. "Fucking hell, America, _Disney?_"

America threw his arms out as though he were presenting the obvious. "Since we're on the subject of fairy tales, _obviously!_"

"The problem with you," England screamed, face reddening like a beetroot, "the problem with you, America, is you go out into the world and, rather than interact with others like a _normal_ nation, you set out to remake the world in your image!"

America couldn't heave enough put-upon huffs. "The hell I do that!" he protested loudly.

"You do," England said. "You do! Then, because you don't know about anything but yourself, you take for granted when others know about you!" He rapped his knuckle against his skull to illustrate America's thickheadedness. "You _understand_ that others are different from you, but you never stop to fathom to _what extent_ the knowledge becomes meaningful."

America marched a few steps closer to England, purposefully crossing their unspoken personal space boundary. "Name _one_ example of that," he growled.

"I'll do you several!" England retorted, also marching closer. "You think the entire world celebrates on the Fourth of July, and you get so offended when others don't feel the same!"

"You've beaten that zombie horse beyond its grave," America replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Everyone knows how much you hate Independence Day. _Next!"_

"I'm just getting started! It's one thing to invite someone to your birthday party and get a no-show, it's another entirely to beat up a stranger in an alley because they aren't wearing your colours!"

America crossed his arms. "I never laid a _finger_ on you for not wearing stars and stripes," he grumbled, a little more quietly than before.

England's face became monstrous at this statement. "I'm not saying I ever wanted to," America added quickly, "I'm saying it's not fair for you to accuse me of doing something I've never done!"

"I was speaking _metaphorically_ – do you need that concept defined for you?"

"Anyway," America continued, "this is the kind of thing you always complain about. I don't get where you were going with this. What is it I don't understand?"

"_Well," _England took a deep breath, "you don't think anything of it if I account for time zones when I phone you. You don't even remember that others live in a different time of day as you!"

America scowled. "That's just untrue. The times between New York and California is a difference of three hours."

England took a step forward, pumping a clenched fist. "You don't realise that milk chocolate is a revolting, saccharine waste of cacao!"

America threw his arms up. "If it's such a revolting waste, then why are the chocolates you give me always milk chocolate?"

"_Because I know you like it,_ you twit!"

America's eyes widened into saucers, his arms falling limp at his sides.

When America didn't say anything, England took the chance to continue. "You think the entire world eats the way you do, too. Do you think France understands, or even Japan?" England hesitated, and then pressed on. "Do you think _they_ know, that you always eat all the food you can get because you're deathly afraid of starvation?"

A shiver went down America's spine. The two of them were close enough to casually touch, now; America moved his hand toward England's neck, and he caught himself in time, hovering just short of contact. England's eyes were a hypnotic deep green, like rolling hills of wild grass and the deep life of a forest lake.

"I – I don't do that," America whispered.

"You do," England said firmly. "Though you may be loathe to admit it, because you would never allow yourself to acknowledge your fears."

America tore his gaze away from England's eyes and looked down at his hands; England had wrapped them in his own, his grip gentle and warm and magic, like they could generate pixie dust and America's palms would fly away without him. "France is kind of a douchebag when it comes to food," he offered weakly.

"You know what else France doesn't understand?" England said, voice softer now. "You churn out thousands of ice creams in radioactive colours and metaphysical flavours, but you never stop eating vanilla."

America's lips curled up at this and he's smiling and blushing deep crimson, and he could see the victory in England's features as he takes in America's expression.

"It's subtle," America admits. "It's not going to hit you in the face with its taste; you have to pay attention to it or it won't do anything for you."

England's expression softens, until his face is so smooth that he looks like an airbrushed picture in a magazine, too perfect to be believed. He leans forward and kisses America's mouth.

America gasps, completely surprised, and then his eyes drift closed and he melts into the sensation of England's lips, blissfully kissing back as sensually as he dared.

England stopped them for a short moment to say, "Either you understand metaphors after all, or you're very lucky with words."

"Mrmm," America grunted, eyes unfocussed, lips pink and swollen.

England grinned, and continued the kiss with his tongue. His hand fisted into America's hair almost painfully. America dizzily registered the wet warmth on his lip; he leaned forward to minimize their small height difference, pressed their bodies together and they fit so well, America could swear he was cut from England's shape; put his hands around England's shoulders, then around his waist, into his hair maybe? There was too much of England and not enough hands. England was tilting his head for a better angle, and then all America could think of was all the places in America he wanted England to experience.

Apropos of nothing, England pulled away from America and slapped him hard across the face.

"And once you've learnt to treat me as a _nation_ rather than a _fetish_, perhaps we can start a real relationship," England hissed into America's ear as America groaned and complained. He gave America's shoulder a few condescending pats and pushed America out his front door and into the driveway.

As England returned to his house to shut the door, America called out. "There you go again," America said without thinking, "acting prickly once you've opened yourself, to keep everyone away. You're scared to death of being hurt on the inside again."

England froze, and for a second America was in a panic about going one step too far. When England turned around, though, he was smiling.

"You're getting the hang of it," England said, his tone weary and raw, but his eyes were sparkling with the optimistic hope he always has for his idiot America.

.

"Do you remember the day when you learned how to fly?" Japan prompted him a week later. This time he was speaking to America in person. There were still some things in the world Japan hadn't learned to do virtually. He put his hand on America's shoulder and squeezed it.

"That day was unforgettable," America said. He looked down at the busy traffic below, at the comparatively narrow sidewalk beside it. He took a few deep breaths and exchanged looks with Japan; Japan nodded in encouragement.

America took out his phone and dialed England's number.

"Hullo?"

"Hey England," America said, unable to keep a small tremor from his voice. "You remember the day I learned how to fly?"

There was a pause. "I do," England said.

"You always told me to stop entertaining my stupid ideas, that if I wasn't careful I'd hit the ground and shatter." America's hands were trembling too now; he hoped that wouldn't transfer over the phone. "That you wouldn't always be around to clean up the mess if I did."

"I believe you're well familiar with Humpty Dumpty," England agreed. He was certainly beginning to sound suspicious.

If America looked hard enough, he could see a man in a cardigan turn the corner into his sidewalk; Japan makes a note of this, but says nothing, because if America wanted to see it then he would look.

"Wasn't it worth it, though?" America continued quickly. He could feel a stutter coming on and he wanted to squash it down. "That first feeling; to fly through the air. It was the ultimate freedom. Defying the laws of physics, putting a big finger up to God."

Then America took the phone from his ear and hung up. "Now, Japan," he said, because he knew he couldn't do it himself.

Japan nodded, and pushed America off the building.

For a while, America really did relish the sensation of traveling in the air; it was almost like that day, over a century ago. When he, America, brought humans into the air, made the impossible into the possible.

This fantasy was broken with the sound of a suppressed scream and a mobile phone breaking against the pavement, and then he was back in the present, falling through the air with no control at all, not even an illusion of it, and he found himself staring up into the clouds because it was better than staring at the approaching ground.

There was a flash of intangible energy; he felt a powdered substance engulf his body and the air pressure slowing down around him, and before he knew it he was floating gently into England's waiting arms.

"I do believe in fairies," he whispered to England, wonderstruck.

England was panting, out of breath from sprinting down the block. Out of the corner of his eye, America thought he saw a magic wand vanish. "What on _earth_ were you thinking? Have you lost your diminutive mind?" he shouted in America's ear.

"I was wrong," America stated earnestly. "I did enter the war and I did save you, but it wasn't never any other way." He wrapped his arms around England's shoulders and hugged him, partially out of gratitude and partially because he was so very glad to be alive. "You saved me a lot, too. Saved my life, even when I was healthy and you were dying. Thank you."

England nodded, smiling, though he was still panting for air. "And, of course, you had to find the most dramatic, dangerous, selfish way to tell me."

America beamed. "Only because it was really important."

"Some hero you turned out to be," England said warmly. America kissed the smile from England's lips.


End file.
